Storymania - The Massacre Of Sierra Madre by Kevin Myrick

The Massacre Of Sierra Madre
Kevin Myrick

The town of Sierra Madre is about 17 minutes from downtown Los Angeles. It is in the
hotspot of the drug trade, but still a relatively small community inside the Los Angeles
County control area. The town itself is only three square miles of area, but the land
value is extremely high. And out this far, many things can happen. But as many stories tend
to begin with something extreme, something like Dickens’ “It was the best of times, it was
the worst of times.” Or maybe something like “My name is Ishmael.” But these things are not
what make this story. This story is purely about one thing: drugs.

I tell this story from the events I read about in the journal of the man who came to town,
after the fact. I am simply known as ‘The Padre’ for you folk who need to know me.
Otherwise, just know that for now, I am telling the events to the best of my knowledge of
what I have seen, heard and read. It began with a girl named Mary.

Mary had grown up in Chatsworth, and was attending UCLA. She was also a drug dealer on the
side, selling drugs to the students and faculty who were in the know about her dealings. On
this particular day, she had come to Sierra Madre to score marijuana and cocaine to sell to
whomever she could, so she could pay her tuition and rent. She was also saving to buy a
house. Mary was not a bad person per se, but her choices in life were the wrong ones. And
on this summer eve, she had made an especially bad choice. The sellers of her drugs on this
particular night were the corrupt sheriffs deputies that worked in the Sierra Madre area.

She had come with a pistol, something light but with enough power to kill. She had
hid the pistol in the small of her back, underneath her jacket for easy access. She wore
red cowboy boots, jeans and a red tank top shirt. Her hair was dyed red. The red hair
accentuated her eyes, the leftover genetics of a Spanish heritage long forgotten in her
family. All they knew now was the lawlessness of Southern California. All they cared for
was the making of money. It was no matter to her or her family whether or not they broke
the law. They just wanted money. They were committing a deadly sin, a sin of greed.

Her car pulled up to the outskirts of town, in the Sierra Madre Canyon Wilderness.
The sheriff’s cars were already parked, large SUVs, with big tires to navigate the back
trails. They had done dealings before, they all knew the drill. This game they played was
a dangerous one, where death could come and take them before their time at any second. One
wrong move would be fatal. They were waiting on the bumpers of their trucks, with their
pistols inside their belt holsters, like gunslingers of the old west. Four deputies in all;
the chief of police of Sierra Madre ran this evil scam. They were killers by choice however,
not by trade.

Mary soon got out of her car, flashing her lights to let them know it was her. She
walked with hands raised in the air.

“Good evening gentlemen,” she said. “I see you are all here. Shall we get this
business over with and all go home and watch TV?”
The Chief spoke, since he was in charge. “Yes, let’s do that.”

One of the deputies went to the back of the SUV and grabbed two bags. He also
grabbed one last bag, one that contained a twelve gauge riot shotgun. He brought all three
bags around to the front, laid two of them on the hood and one on the ground, taking the
shotgun out of the bag.

“Where’s the money?” The Chief asked.
“It’s in the trunk, let me go get it.” Mary went around to the back of her car,
opened the trunk and grabbed a gym bag full of cash. She moved her pistol from the place in
the small of her back to the front, allowing it to rest in a place between the waist line
of her jeans and her bare skin. She wore no panties.

Then she came around to the front of the car, and tossed the bag toward one of the
deputies.

“It’s all there. You can count it if you want.”
“No it’s not,” the chief said securely.
“What do you mean it’s not all their? I used the electronic money counter on that.
The fuck it isn’t all there!” Mary replied, a little bit of anger in her voice.
“I don’t think you understand, we’ve gone up on price.” One of the deputies shot
back in the dark.
“The fuck you mean you’ve gone up on price?!” Mary was now shouting. People were
getting anxious.
“Yes, that’s correct. We’ve gone up on price. You owe us another 20.”
“FUCK YOU!” She shouted back, pulling her gun from her waistband. Suddenly, the
deputy with the shotgun came up from behind, pointing the barrel at the back of her head.
“DROP THE WEAPON BITCH!” He shouted.

Mary complied with the order, dropping her pistol to the ground. She was now
helpless. Another deputy ran up from behind, grabbed her hands and zip tied them together
behind her back. Then, the chief said “Have fun boys,” and got into his own SUV and left.

From this point, I believe it is suffice to say that she was raped by the deputies
on the hood of her car. And after they were done with her, she was dragged by her ankles in
the middle of the open area in between her car and the remaining SUVs and pushed her to
the ground. Her jeans were around her ankles, her tank-top ripped off completely revealing
her breasts. Her jacket still remained on. She was humiliated by their laughter as they
raped her, dragged her into the open field and pulled up to her knees. The deputies then
cut the zip tie from around her hand, and pointed the shotgun at the back of her head.

“We should take her back to the warehouse boys, and let some of the boys over
there have a turn at her,” One of the deputies said.
“Shut the fuck up Joe” the deputy sitting behind the wheel of one of the SUVs said. He lit a cigarette. His Zippo clicked with its closing. Then the loud clink of the pump action on the shotgun was deafening in the sudden silence of the night.
“If you guys are going to kill me, can I at least have one last cigarette before
I die?” Mary asked as the deputies all looked on.
“Tell you what dear,” the deputy named Joe said, “I’ll let you live, if you will
willingly take my dick out of my jeans and suck it off.”
“Fuck you. Just give me a smoke and kill me.”
“C’mon dear, that’s not nice now. Just unbutton my jeans, take my dick out and
suck on it a bit.”
“I said, fuck you.”
“We already did that to you, and you weren’t very good.”
“Joe,” the deputy behind the wheel said. “Give her a smoke and finish her already,
I want to go home and spend time with Caroline.”
“Look Roger, I know you’ve got something goin’ on with you lady and all, but I
ain’t got shit here. I’m horny, so lay off and let me get a piece of ass.”

Roger was getting irritated, and pulled out his pistol and got out of the SUV. He
came up to Joe, and said only three words “Go sit down.” The look in Roger’s eyes made him
sit down, the tone in his voice. Roger was tired, and wanted to be with his own girlfriend.
He handed Mary a smoke, the last decent act of a man who could have been a decent person
if not for the corruption of greed. She asked for a light. His Zippo clicked open, the
wheel hitting the flint in that distinctive sound of a sort of grinding. The smell of
lighter fluid being burned slowly through the wick permeated into her nose. The crackling
of tobacco and paper being burned drifted towards her ears, making her remember the good
times of her life. Her first drag, with the first hit of nicotine rushing through her blood
from the lungs mixed with the adrenaline, allowing her to be calmed for a bit as the
adrenaline and nicotine mix together. Her gun was two feet from her, right behind her.
She could quickly lean back and grab it, shoot this Roger in the head and then use his
body as a shield and shoot this Joe with the shotgun. If only…

It was too late for final stands. The last few drags of her cigarette were
bittersweet. To die by the sword was never her intention, but she knew that it was always
a possibility. Her mind raced with thoughts, wondering why she had been fucked in this
deal so bad. Who would avenge her? Her boyfriend? He wasn’t someone anyone would mess with
day to day, but he was also no killer. Her mind raced with a million thoughts about God,
her life, what had just happened to her, the future, everything. And then, she heard the
clicking of the pistol hammer.

“I’m sorry, it’s not me.” Roger said to her, before she closed her eyes and began
saying a prayer she remembered from her Catholic school days.

“Ave Maria, mother full of grace…” were her last words. And the gun fired, and she
was dead.

Roger, Joe, and the other two deputies got in their respective SUVs and drove off,
leaving her body and car to be discovered. Roger, looking sadly out the window forward
wiped the blood that had splattered onto his face off with a hanker chef. He said to Joe,
who was sitting beside him. “I don’t think I can ever do that again.”

Joe, chidingly said “Man, you should have gotten a piece of that.”
“Fuck you Joe. We just killed her for no reason other than money man. That’s some
fucked up shit.”
“Whatever man.”
“I tell you what though, the next time you and the chief decide to kill some
dealing bitch, don’t call me. You can do it yourself next time.”
“Why didn’t you just let me shoot her?”
“Because man, she was in pain.”
“What do you mean she was in pain? About midway through with me she was
enjoying it.”
“Joe, let’s stop talking about this now before I decide to put a bullet through
your skull.”
“Okay, okay man.”

* * *

He was at the airport. He had been in Spain for the past three weeks, going to places
like Ibiza and Barcelona. And Mary was late. She was never late. In the past four years
they had been dating, he had never known her to be late for anything. It was a few days
after her death when he arrived at Los Angeles International Airport. He had not heard from
her for a few days as well. He was extremely worried. So he sat in the airport café,
sipping on coffee and listening to the phone in the apartment ring and ring. The answering
machine finally picked up. He heard her voice and his, going back and forth on the message.
He smiled at that. He left a message. Then he tried her cell phone, the one that only a few
people knew about. It also rang and rang. Now he was really worried. Something had
happened. He called her mother.

Her mother answered on the first ring. “Hola, Casa de Martinez.”
“Hola, Señora Martinez. ¿Cómo es usted?”
“¿Bueno, y usted?”
“Bueno. ¿Escucha, usted ha visto a Maria?”
“No, no he oído de ella en un par de días. ¿Usted justo consiguió detrás de España?”
“Sí, y yo están en el aeropuerto.”
“¿Usted necesita a me o a José tomarle ?”
“No, tomaré un taxi. Gracias, señora Martinez.”
“Usted es agradable. Hablaré con usted pronto. Tenga una buena tarde.”
“Usted también señora Martinez. Adiós.”
“Adiós.”

This conversation was the last one he would have with Mrs. Martinez, Mary’s mother.
He caught a taxi to their apartment in Santa Monica, costing him an arm and a leg, and the
found the note that was left for him on the table by Woody. It was in an envelope. It has
his name on it.

He read the note left by one of Mary’s friends and drug dealer named Woody Dean.
Woody was a good guy, and had a key to their apartment just in case something were to
happen to Mary or himself. And he read the note. It read something like this.

“Dude, I'm sorry to have to tell you like this, but Mary’s been killed by the cops
she was dealing with. The word on the street is that it was Roger Harris who pulled the
trigger, and that they are looking for you to tie up loose ends. Come to the safe house
when you get back into town. I grabbed the important stuff you’ll need.”

Suddenly, he collapsed on the floor of their kitchen. He sank to his knees and
began to cry tears that no other man would understand. He loved Mary, will always love Mary.
And now, she was dead. He was going to ask Mary to marry him after he got back from Spain
this evening. And now she was gone so suddenly. And now, he was pissed. And he knew what
needed to be done.

He grabbed his favorite black leather coat, a bag with some clothing, and the 2 Colt
.45 pistols he carried with him when he was Mary’s protection. Along with the 12 Gauge
shotgun that was underneath the bed. He would go to the safe house first, and talk to Woody.
Grab the cash that was his and Mary’s, settle up with Woody his percentage and leave. But
first, their was the little matter of torching the apartment. Oh, how many wonderful nights
he and Mary had spent there. This was where she had taught him how to dance, how to roll his
first joint. This is especially where she taught him how to know the difference from good
pot and bad. And now, she was dead. His Mary-- his light, his love, his inspiration. She was
gone for good. And the fucking dirty cops had done it. He knew it was a bad idea to buy from
those motherfuckers!

* * *

As a sort of subplot to this story, Mary was only involved in a small part of the
ring of corruption that Joe, Roger and the others had began a few years before when they
found out how drugs were being smuggled through Sierra Madre. The drug dealers and package
boys had gotten smarter about communicating, going to payphones and constantly changing
their cell phone numbers. They would use old CIA tricks from the cold war, such as marking
mailboxes with purple chalk to communicate a meeting for an exchange. They were sneaky,
but not good enough.

They caught an illegal coming over with 2 pounds of marijuana in his truck, that
had somehow gotten through the border patrol checkpoint. And then Roger and Joe got the idea
that they could use the illegal immigrants to make money for themselves. Hence how this
business began. However, to get the cooperation they needed, they needed the Sierra Madre
police chief to cooperate. He of course, was happy to oblige, after $500,000.00 in cash from
their previous sales had been accumulated. His only stipulation was that he was the head
boss of this ring, and that the deputies were captains. Just like in the mob.

It gets worse, much worse than I had originally thought. Since the illegal
immigrants who were trafficking the drugs had figured out that they were being setup by the
cops to only have their drugs stolen, they had gotten smarter. So, being the smart guys they
were, the deputies recruited a UCLA college student to help them build a large grow lab
inside of a warehouse. Then, the illegal immigrants they had already taken into “custody”
would work as a labor force, tending the marijuana and cocaine plants, and processing it.
Grown in the USA, just as good as anything from Mexico or Columbia. And no one had a clue
exactly what was going on completely except for one man, and his name was Woody Dean.

Woody Dean was the college student who helped build the humongous grow lab for the
cops new plant. He even introduced Mary to the deputies to act as a pusher on UCLA campus
for the weed and coke they were growing. But tensions had been raised with the group when
Woody, who was thinking in the best interests of the workers, that they be given $10.00 an
hour to keep their mouth shut instead of minimum wage. Most workers who were illegal
normally would only get say $4.00 an hour maximum in Southern California. The deputies were
being generous. But the workers were still poor and hungry, and that was Woody's motivation.
He felt for their starvation, their lack of proper places to live. He hated the fact that
they were being exploited in such a fashion. Yet, in all this, there was nothing he could do.

So this last deal, the death of Mary in fact, had been partially his fault. Since he
had mentioned that the workers get more money, then the deputies decided that they should
get more money as well. They felt that Mary’s prices were too low for the stuff they were
growing and selling to her, and that she owed more money. So therefore, the deputies
decided that unless she could get $20,000 more dollars for them, and they would offer her
the choice to do so, that she would not die. And she declined their offer, and so she died.

When the boyfriend walked up to Woody’s door, he slid the lever on one of his
pistols, ready to kill him if he found the need to. Woody was his friend, he had known him
for years. But if he was in such a way seen as a traitor, he would kill him where he stood.
He knocked on the door, and something stirred inside. It was Woody, banging his shin on a
coffee table that he had in the living room of the safe house. The television was blaring
at full blast, in case someone was listening.

Woody came to the door, looked through the peephole. “DUDE! THANK GOD YOU’RE ALIVE!”
He opened the door, and saw the two pistols in the holsters on the boyfriend’s belt, one of
the loops already unsnapped, ready for use.
“Whoah,” Woody said. “Hold on man, I had nothing to do with this shit.”
“How did it happen?”
“Word on the street from one of the immigrants is that she told them to fuck off
on a price increase. So they killed her.”
“Is that all they did?”
“You don’t want to know the rest.”
The boyfriend pulled his gun out of it’s holster, and aimed it at Woody’s head.
“Get on your knees,” he said calmly.
Woody complied, sinking down to his knees on the carpet.
“Please don’t shoot me. Please!”
“Woody, is that all they did?!?!?” The boyfriend asked again.
“NOOO!” Woody shouted through the sobs.
“What else did they do to Mary?” He asked calmly.
“Please dude, you don’t want to know!”
“I WANT TO FUCKING KNOW!”
“They raped her,” Woody mumbled.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?”
“I SAID THEY RAPED HER!” Woody shouted.

The boyfriend signaled with the pistol for Woody to get up. Woody did, and walked
over to the couch, about to sit down.
“Where’s the cash Woody?”
Woody stopped, looking at him with eyes staring through the soul of a man, seeing
his intentions.
“What do you mean ‘where’s the cash?’” Woody asked, scathingly.
He pulled his gun back to Woody’s head. “You know what I mean. Now, I want Mary’s
cut and mine.”
“Dude, you can’t kill cops and get away with it. They’ll hunt you down.”
“I’ve already planned for that. Now give me my fucking money asshole.”

Woody went into the bedroom, and grabbed the duffel bag. “Take it all. Just make
sure that in the end, you get every last fucking one of them. I’ve got enough stashed away
to get me out of L.A.”

With that, he picked up the bag and headed for the door. He stopped for a moment,
turned around and looked back at Woody.

“Understand this Woody, and understand this well. If I find out from ANYONE that you
had a hand in this, I’ll fucking hunt you down and blow your brains all over whatever wall
you happen to be standing behind. Understand?”
“Understood.”
“I will find the son of a bitch who put the bullet in her brain, and I will kill him.
And I will find the others that raped her, and I will kill them. And most importantly, I
will kill the person who ordered her dead. I will have my vengeance.”

And with that, the boyfriend walked out the door, and never looked back at Woody’s
face, full of rage at what had just happened.